When Queen Victoria asked her cousin, Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, to marry her, she was hesitant in voice and dry in throat and tears drummed against the back of her eyelids. It was not the first time she'd proposed to a man so it could not have been fear that gripped her so, but it was something equally chilling. Her fingernails sunk into the back of her hand, so forcefully that she was sure she'd drawn blood. And through her head the whole time swarmed the words her mother and uncle had said to her. Albert is a good match for you, Victoria. You will be happy with Albert, Drina. It is your duty as a Queen. You must. She sought love in his eyes but found her duty instead, staring back her with indefinite intent: to save or destroy, she knew not.

Duty compelled her to the marriage. Ironic, as the importance of duty had been taught to her by the man that held her heart, still, no matter how he tried to hand it back to her.

Albert accepted and her heart stiffened; part of her had hoped he would decline her, and so she could run to her uncle and mother and declare that she could not marry Albert for he had refused her. Was it treason to decline a monarch's marriage proposal? It was not an aspect of sovereignty that Lord Melbourne had taught her: and she doubted he would now, as he had done it himself, and she imagined he had no desire to be sent to the Tower on charge of treason. She wondered whether she could bring herself to send Lord Melbourne to the tower, should his actions be criminal. Were prisoners still sent to the tower? She knew not, but knew that she would not have the stomach to imprison her Prime Minister, no matter his crimes.

But Albert did not decline her, perhaps only fearing the alternative, and he kissed her. She reciprocated the kiss cooperatively, like the counter piece to his clockwork in their automaton.

And she returned to her mother and uncle, slick palms being wiped on the silvery fabric of her gown as her heart thumped against her ribcage, sending her breath juddering out of her nose. She saw her uncle as the granite statue of a lord prepared to punish her for her wrongdoings. She saw her mother as a juror, gavel in hand prepared to sentence her. Perhaps she already had. They were both monolithic and cruel and suddenly they seemed so much bigger and more powerful than her: The Queen of England. Her voice wavered as she spoke to them. She did not even use Albert's name. She did not tell them that she had performed a proposal of marriage. She did not tell them that she had offered her hand to her cousin. She simply told them that she had performed her duty, softly, and they understood what she meant.

Her mother's hands flew to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears. She turned to King Leopold with a twinkle of victory flickering in her. She made some horrible cry of delight. It made Victoria angry, as she remembered the looks she would pass her uncle when she even glanced at her Prime Minister: disapproval and worry. How am I to deal with my silly daughter? It reminded her of how she would look at Sir John, before he would stare at her, burrowing into her with an icy gaze and for a second making her feel guilty for showing her Prime Minister affection, before she would feel the bile rise in her throat and change her mind. Sir John would place a slimy hand on her shoulder and croon,

"You must not let Lord Melbourne tempt you, Your Majesty."

As if she were some foolish little girl who did not know her own mind and was unable to perceive the minds of others and would be so easily led by a handsome face into folly. Not only that, but his assumption that Lord Melbourne wished to lead her into folly when she knew that he wanted no such thing but simply to guide her and aid her. He had always talked to her in such a way, always planting slimy hands on her, always pawing her, always breathing on her, unaware of her stiffening. Her mother was just the same, patronising. Her uncle was the same, cloying. And now they all rejoiced in the match they'd created, and Victoria watched them as if through a window, feeling no warmth in their joy and no depth in their feeling.

She took no pleasure in hearing of the wedding preparations. She took no pleasure in choosing the colour of the sashes her ladies would wear. She took no pleasure in hearing of the music that would be played. She took no pleasure in telling people that she was engaged to Albert. She took no pleasure at all in the thought of informing her Prime Minister of these recent developments. And, when he entered the drawing room – looking oddly grey against the yellow draperies adorning the walls made brighter by the sun falling on them, his reflection in the mirror looking like a ghostly film of a man – Victoria felt sick. He kissed her hand, lively in all his greyness, and she collected her unsteady voice,

"There is something I must tell you," she breathed, watching his face intently for the trembles of feeling that she knew wandered across it so briefly. She was always sure to study his face carefully, knowing that the emotions were so subtle and so brief that an unfocused eye could miss them. She wondered whether it was a strategy of his – to protect himself. Today, he showed simple intrigue, and that hurt her. "Yesterday, I had a conversation. A very," her voice wavered as it knew now what to say. She looked to his eyes for guidance but he offered none as he, too, knew not what she wished to say. "A very enlightening conversation." The word she picked was clumsy and did not portray her feelings at all. She was sure that Lord Melbourne would have picked a far more suitable phrase if it were him talking.

Melbourne raised his eyebrows and glanced at the window,

"Well, I am glad to hear it, Ma'am," he chimed, amused by her. His ease of manner frightened her.

"So, you do approve? You think I am doing the right thing?" she garbled, gaze flitting between each of those green eyes, afraid that he no longer cared, that he no longer felt anything, that he was going to resign and approve of her match and not even put up a fight and let her go. She could not bear him letting her go.

"As you've not yet told me who you spoke too or, indeed, what you spoke about: it is hard for me to say," he said, pragmatically, but with a little trickle of something humorous tampering with his tone. It almost made her smile, but she could not.

"I have asked Prince Albert to marry me!" she cried, suddenly, a moment's fervour seizing her. In a single instant, Lord Melbourne, hardly even hearing what she said, noticed the flowers in her hair. What a moment ago had brought him joy now offered the bitterest grief. Small and white.

"And he has accepted."

Hardly missing a beat, and now hearing her voice clearly repeating in his own head, he looked to the floor to escape the eyes of her and said, in voice as clear and strong as he could feign,

"Then he is as wise as he is fortunate." But he felt nothing in the words. His duty beating against his skull, he turned his face up to her for a brief second, looking for something he could not find, "Allow me to congratulate you, Ma'am." And his body turned briefly in something like a sway, eyes still downcast, before he quickly corrected himself and backed away from her towards the centre of the room, his step unsure.

He had almost turned his back on her.

Her body cried out that she did not love Albert and this was merely her duty and she still wishes to marry him and it is all she desires and all she thinks about. It cried out that he must not believe that this is her wish. He must never believe that she has turned him away. She would never do such a thing. She would not be like Caroline Lamb; she had promised him that. She had promised him that long ago and she would never break that promise. But her mind was silent and hurting and her mouth and lungs followed suit.

Victoria hated interruptions when she was meeting with her Prime Minister, and they often spent days undisturbed in the drawing room, looking over papers or simply talking, or perhaps taking a turn about the palace or the gardens, and not another voice slipped into their ears or another face flattered their eye. It was the way she wished it to be, and her express instructions. But then, in those moments they spent in the drawing room, Melbourne standing aimlessly in the centre of the room with his fists balled by his sides and his eyes staring fixedly at a single spot on the carpet and Victoria remaining by the window fighting away her tears and rubbing a hand fervently across her clavicle if just to give her something to do, she wanted nothing more than an interruption. She wanted him to leave, to find some excuse to have to leave and go far away, but she also wished he would stay forever and she could wrap him in her embrace and hold him there. Perhaps time itself would stop and she would never go through with the marriage, but simply remain in that state of embrace. He had often wished for the same thing, but not now. It hurt too much.

She had told him that she did not want to marry Albert: where had that woman gone? He thought. In truth, she was still there. But he could not see that, for he was not looking at her. Perhaps, if he had gazed up for a moment, he would have seen her eyes, heart calling out for his heart.

The call continued, like a constant noise drawing from her, all the while, as he left, and as she watched his carriage pull away, and as she saw the gate open to free him, and as she saw the carriage turn to the road, and as she saw it begin to fade out of sight, and as she felt him sigh, and as she felt him look back for a moment, and as she felt him thinking of her.

The call continued as she was married to her cousin, in the Chapel Royal. She had felt sick in the carriage from Buckingham Palace, and the orange blossoms on her head were so heavy she thought she would falter beneath them. Crumple and fall like a doll or a petal. They felt heavier than any crown. The silk satin of her gown was hot. It made her sweat. She could feel her own sweat gathering on her thighs, a drip forming at the back of her neck. She scraped her hand to ribbons, and bit her lip until she feared it must be bleeding. Her brain seemed to swell inside her skull until she was sure it would explode from her ears.

The call of her heart became louder once she exited the carriage, perhaps to be heard over the rabble of people, a noise that threatened to blow her over, or maybe in response to seeing her Prime Minister in the Windsor uniform. Oh, his handsomeness burnt her.

The procession proceeded along the aisle. Her train, held by her ladies, felt more like a tether to her now than a bridal veil. She wished to break free from it and fly, but she was held back by it so walked slowly and with grace and dignity, looking to her husband. He was handsome, she consoled herself. He would be kind to her, she reminded herself. She daren't turn her gaze to the Prime Minister, who she knew stood at the side, holding the ceremonial sword. She thought, if she did, she would burst into tears.

The brass, proud and brash, burst in her ears and made her lungs heave.

She met her cousin at the end of the aisle, and turned to him. The priest began to talk, and she swallowed hard with every breath he took. She felt half-asleep, half-dreaming, numb with the pounding of the world, buffeting against her and swaying. She struggled to focus on anything in front of her, and all the noises culminated in a great and ugly cry.

As the words "I do" passed her lips, she could not stop her eye from settling on her Prime Minister who stood behind her husband, silent. He looked brave. She noticed that he, too, was looking directly at her. When they would previously have quickly averted the gaze they shared, they locked their eyes on each other, and his stare was full of such intensity that it made Victoria feel weak. She thought she might faint on her wedding day, with the whole country watching, under the gaze of her Prime Minister. Her knees buckled and she felt the sweat on her thighs becoming cold. Looking to him, and hearing her marriage vows, repeating them, she divulged her imagination in a dream of becoming Mrs Melbourne. She would be wearing this dress, standing in this spot, but he would be her husband. She would share her heart and body with him. She hoped he would be repeating the vows in whispers within the chambers of his heart, filling the hollow space with her, and then they would be married in soul, as she wished.

She was sure she could see the glistening of tears in the eyes that watched her. And his mouth twitched, perhaps in the utterance of those vows that would tie them together. And she saw his chest swell beneath the uniform, the gold thread flaming.

Her heart called out so forcefully she was sure the whole congregation could hear it. His heart mimicked the echo.

Then, as if on cue to concur with the calls of their hearts, a voice called out – loudly and clearly, despite the walls of the Chapel and the sound of the music threatening to drown it.

"Mrs Melbourne!"

Melbourne did not hear the words surrounding it, or the context the title was in, but the two words rung out like the tolling of the bell and brought blood to his cheeks. His stomach turned and he was struck with a sudden and terrible headache. The ceremonial sword teetered in his grip. He thought he would drop it. He looked to the Queen again, hoping she had not heard, but something in the steeliness of her gaze back at him told him she had.

It was a nickname he'd hoped would have died by now, with the marriage of the Queen to a young and handsome Prince. But, as he had once said to her, an English marriage would be popular and, Melbourne knew, they had been foolish in their liaison. He could not blame the public for perceiving their relationship to be romantic: he knew he would believe it to be, were he in their position. It was thoughtlessly committed: their small and brief love affair, that may have been agonisingly small and all too brief but could easily have sent ripples. They had not been careful enough, not nearly. He had not considered it when the name 'Mrs Melbourne' began to circulate, and so he had not changed his behaviour. It took him until the name was being shouted on her wedding day to realise he had been a fool.

He blamed himself for the name that he knew would continue to plague the married Queen. If only he had stepped back. If only he hadn't been tempted, drawn to her, like he had been to Caro. Stepping back could have done him a world of good, then. He had struggled to step back from Victoria, turning down her proposal, but he feared he could never truly loose himself from his ties with her. To sever them, he feared he may cut himself.

The Prince had not noticed. Melbourne was reeling. Victoria was breaking. No one saw a thing.

The procession returned to the palace in a grand line of gilded carriages, fringed on either side by trumpet-wielding men in brash red woollen uniforms, bolted with gold buttons and fringed with golden thread and golden embellishments. Their faces were proud and ruddy and their hearts were full of hope of a new marriage and an heir. The Queen was not so hopeful. She was silent, listening to the rumble and clatter of the wheels on the street and the squeal of the trumpets, and sitting rigid beside her new husband, body being rocked by the movements of the carriage until she felt sick. A few carriages behind, head down in the hope that the people of England would not recognise their Prime Minister in his carriage, was Lord Melbourne, still suffering from a dreadful headache.

The headache did not cease when the celebrations began but, instead, became more acute. Emma Portman approached and lay a hand on his shoulder, afraid he might fall, and remarked on his ashen complexion. He told her it was nothing, and that he was fine, but she could feel his body shaking.

"Lord Melbourne." It was a page boy. "Her Majesty has asked for you." Melbourne nodded, and excused himself from Emma's company. Dread running cold in his blood.

"William," Emma said, stopping him and causing him to turn back to her, "does she know where you mean to go?" William sighed,

"I assume so."

He knew where he would find the Queen without being told. Where would she go to wish him a final farewell? There could only be one place. The place where he first fell in love with her and where, he indulged himself to think, she first fell in love with him. The place was candlelit then, and the smell of spices and champagne doped the air and his senses, making it all thick and hazy as he breathed it in and got drunk on it. She was so drunk that she walked disjointedly, just like one of the dolls she treasured, being manipulated by the clumsy hand of a young girl. That same young girl made her act foolishly, unthinkingly, throwing herself on him and holding her there as they stood in half-embrace. And her eyes traced him like she was studying him, eyelids quivering and throat swallowing. His chest fluttered as her hand pressed, burning through his jacket and shirt and into his skin. He knew, in that moment, that he had fallen. He knew, in that moment, that he was unsafe.

And here she was, again, just the same as she had been, seemingly not a day older, but her face was not that of a bride. It was only a subtlety that showed him the Queen's discontent, but he had known her long enough to notice it immediately. She was very good at wiping Alexandrina Victoria away and leaving the slate of a Queen on her face, but not good enough to fool him. She turned to him and her face, which would normally light up at seeing him, flickered in anguish.

"Lord M," she breathed, her breath catching in her throat and almost causing her to falter. He noticed it.

"Congratulations, Ma'am. I have never seen you look more radiant," he smiled at her, kneeling, and kissing the hand she stretched out for him. She almost cried out at the feeling of his lips pressing against her skin, but she forced herself into silence. Her hand felt cold under his lips, like the hand of an ill woman indeed. Caro's hands had felt just the same, as she wilted in her bed, yielding to the end. His mouth smiled but his voice could hardly follow suit, no matter how he willed it to do so.

"I have heard you mean to return to Brocket Hall."

"Yes, Ma'am. If you will allow me, of course."

"If you must, Lord Melbourne," she replied against her heart's own calling.

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"I suppose this is goodbye, then, Lord M," she said, as if it were simple. Melbourne nodded.

"Goodbye, Ma'am."

She held out her hands again and, fighting the tears that rose in him, he took them. Her hands were there, but something was with them, scratching against his palm. She looked to him, but not with the bittersweet expression of a goodbye or even a look of love or sorrow. She looked to him with urgency, eyes wide and mouth open, pressing the scratchy object into her Prime Minister's hand, and forcing her gaze deep into him. Then, as if being moulded back into normality, she pulled away, leaving the scratchy object in Melbourne's hands, and smiled with all the blank serenity of a sovereign. She did not wipe away the tear that dropped from the corner of her left eye and fell down her cheek. She let it roll. Turning away to hide the tears to come, she walked down the hall, body beginning to heave and sobs beginning to rack.

Lord Melbourne opened his hands gently, as if nursing a small bird, and saw a letter upon which was scribed 'Lord M' in the Queen's handwriting. He looked back to her, but the hallway was empty. He could not read it now, not here, not with the threat of being caught with it. She had passed it to him without a word, he assumed for a reason. No. Blinking away the water in his eyes, he placed it into his pocket carefully, where it smouldered for the rest of the day, burning into him.

It was only when he returned to the privacy of his library, brooding over a bottle of whiskey, that he pulled the square of paper from his pocket, and placed it on the desk before him. He took and long swig and savoured the taste of it in his mouth, coppery and harsh, revelling in the sheer burn of it down his throat. He turned the paper over in his fingers again and again, still unopened, running his thumbs along the ink and his fingers across the corners, learning every notch where her nails had caught the paper and every blot where her young hand had bled the ink. He thought of how she had touched the paper and, by his touching it, he was caressing her hand once again.

Pulling his courage from the bottom of his glass, he pulled the wax seal from the paper, gently drawing it away and placing it on the desk, still intact. Then, with all the care his shaking drunken fingers could muster, he prised apart the paper until it unfurled and offered her words to him, and he read them, hardly breathing.

Lord M.

I have one request of you, only one, and that is that you burn this letter once you have read it. You have told me of the harm a scandal can cause, and once you have read you will surely understand that the event of this letter coming to light would be disastrous. I trust you will follow my instructions. Let none of it remain but, instead, inscribe it into the book of your memory and hold it there.

I feel I could not tell you directly of my feelings: as I fear we may be overheard and, more importantly, I fear I may skew my own meaning or cower away from my true purpose. This letter is the only way I feel I can talk to you as a woman, not as a Queen.

I could not allow myself to go quietly into my present marriage.

I do not wish for you to pity me. I know Albert will not be unkind to me. In fact, I believe the marriage will be convenient. I am not afraid. However, I feel I will be unable to find satisfaction in the marriage unless I tell you that you are the sole owner of my heart, still. Do not believe the pretence. I must give my heart and my body to my husband, as you understand, but, as far as I am concerned, it is you alone who holds them. I am not afraid, but I know I will be unhappy.

I know you turned down my proposal, and therefore these declarations may fall on unsympathetic ears. I care not. I need you to understand. I love you. I love you. I love you. I can hardly stop myself from writing the words to you. I was never able to tell you but I ask you to read the words and hear me saying them for, believe me, I am saying them in my own mind. I can only wish that you are repeating them to me. I am imagining you saying it. It sounds beautiful. Oh, how I love you.

I may be married to Prince Albert, but know that I will always be yours. I will miss you, but I know that one day we shall meet again in a place where we will be allowed to love one another. I long for the day. What a divinity!

I will write to you when I can, but my letters will be that of a Queen to her Prime Minister. This letter will be the only one written by a woman to a man. Do not reply to this letter. Savour it. Feel it. Know it, I pray. Know that I will be thinking of you always. I will never forget the words passed between us. I will never forget your kindness. I will never forget your eyes. I will never forget what we had.

I love you.

Yours always,

Alexandrina.

Without strength enough to reread the words she said to him, he took the letter and cast it into the fire. There, it curled and blackened, across the words she had written and over the kisses she had planted on to the paper, and the flames followed quickly behind, crumbling them to ash and turning them to smoke. The smoke turned to acid in his nostrils and stung his eyes. He repeated the words to her, hoping she might feel him echoing it: I love you, I love you, I love you.

He could hear the calling of her heart, beating ceaselessly into the night.

He returned to the desk and took the wax seal and put it in the box beside his son's hair and the cameo of Caro. He closed the box, sealing it, and placed it back into the drawer until it closed, and only then did he begin to cry.